Friendly Fire
by bravefan
Summary: New rule - the medic isn't allowed to get hurt. Ever.
1. Chapter 1

"Abort! Abort! Take cover!"

Dalton, had just enough time to look up from his rifle and meet Jaz's confused expression before the first explosion hit. It shook the walls of the building they were holed up in sending pictures crashing off the walls.

Okay, apparently the DIA hadn't been kidding.

He saw Jaz duck down on the far side of the room. There was no hint of panic in her eyes as she calmly crawled away from the window she had been scoping. She moved gracefully, sliding her gun protectively in front of her and shuffling after it.

Of course she was saving the gun first.

His exasperation was short lived as another explosion rocked them. It was nearer than the first and blew out the windows on her side of the room, sending dirt and debris inwards.

Shit.

He dropped and rolled away from his window before it did the same. He moved unsteadily as the ground underneath shifted with the aftershock of the blast. There really was no good spot to take cover in the room and he settled for shuffling towards the corner as fast as he could manage.

Despite the chaos his mind was quickly running the scenarios as he moved. The small targeted explosions made him think drone strike, a series of them. They had apparently found themselves in the epicenter of the strike pattern.

He flinched as another one struck, thankfully further away.

There was no point in trying to run. Without knowing the target sequence they would be just as likely to move into the path of the next blast as they would be to avoid it. Better to hunker down here where they at least had a structure to give some form of protection.

He prided himself on planning for every eventuality. Preparing for every situation so that he could keep his team safe. But he had no idea what was happening right now and he hated it.

They were fish in a bowl. Trapped ...powerless and he was going to be royally pissed if this was how it ended.

The next explosion was close. Too close.

It blew out the entire wall, sending chunks of sheetrock and him across the room and into the kitchen. He slammed into the cabinets, hard. The air rushed out of his lungs and he lay stunned for a second, thoroughly winded.

He silently gasped for air, waiting for his lungs to be willing to pull in air again. Logically he knew that he wouldn't actually suffocate, that he would breathe again, but his body ignored him and panicked anyways.

Finally his lungs returned from vacation, kickstarting and allowing him to relax slightly. Somewhere between his ringing ears and his rapidly beating heart he recognized a stop to the bombardment patterning.

He lay still for another minute, just to be sure, but then started working to free himself from all the debris piled around and on top of him. Excavating out from under a piece of the kitchen table, and the chunks sheetrock, and all the other general crap that had accumulated in the corner with him. He brushed off as much dirt as possible, checking the source of the blood on his sleeve and locating a few grazes on his uncovered arm. Nothing serious, he would have some good bruises tomorrow but all in all he would take it.

Quickly his mind shifted to the status of his team, stomach knotting with worry. Had the others been so lucky.

He was already scanning across the room in the area he had last seen his sniper and some of his tension eased when he caught sight of her dark hair pop up amongst the debris. Similar to him she was pushing her way out from under piles of rubble and was coated in dust and dirt. She looked slightly shaken and a hell of a lot pissed.

Noah's voice was urgent in his ear, calling for a status report, practically begging for a response from the team.

Preach was the first to report in. Amir closely following. Both had been a few blocks to the east and reported no damage or harm to their location.

Dalton reached down to his shoulder to respond and realized that wasn't going to happen. His ear piece was still wired into the radio transmitter at his waist, connection undisturbed under his shirt and vest. The microphone and control piece, that was usually attached to his vest….wasn't anymore.

Jaz's keen eyes caught his problem.

She keyed her own comm, answering for the pair.

"No harm. Top and I are alright, but it was too close for comfort on our end. What the hell happened?"

She started out calmly, but her voice was tight and bursting with barely controlled anger by the end.

Patricia clearly shared her sentiment, and she didn't have to try and hide it. Her fury blistered through the comms and he readjusted his earwig to sit further out in his ear. Jaz winced at the volume as well, mouthing a "Wow" and raising her eyebrows in surprise.

Most of the team had not seen this side of the deputy Director before. She was normally calm and collected in her dealings with them. But Dalton had a longer history with her and was not surprised in the slightest. She was fiercely protective of her people, and whatever fuckup had occured, she wouldnt take lightly.

He zoned out slightly, only half listening as he dug around trying to find the rest of his radio set. He gathered that someone had failed to notify the proper channels prior to executing the strike. Her tone promised swift retribution for the responsible parties who hadn't taken the necessary, and required steps, to ensure their was nothing or no one else operating in the area.

He finally found the missing piece, jamming it in with excessive force so he could join in the conversation.

"Wait, you're telling me that was friendly fire. We did that?"

Just fucking great. He shook his head, breathing through the anger so he could move on to other problems. There would be a time and a place.

For now, he wanted to find the rest of his team and get the hell out of here.

And by his count he still was one man short.

"McG, status..."

"McG."

Jax stilled in the corner where she had been busy clearing a path to the door. Her back hunching, hands clenching at her sides.

"McGuire, talk to me buddy…."

The silence on their comms hung. It terrified him more than any explosions could.

"Noah, get me a fix on his GPS"

He kept his voice carefully calm, but even still Jaz abandoned her efforts, turning to face him with fear all too visible on her expressive face.

"I'm sure he's fine. His radio probably just got jacked up like mine."

He tried to be reassuring but her eyes told him he'd done a shitty job. That she didn't believe it anymore than he did. He tried to ignore the the dread that was creeping into his gut. Tried to come up with alternative explanations for the lack of contact.

He tried to be hopeful. To be optimistic instead of pragmatic for once in his life.

It worked for a few seconds.

Right up until Noah sent the coordinates where McG's GPS was pinging to, and confirmed that the signal hadn't moved an inch since the strikes stopped.

Right up until they received the IMINT for the that area. The aerial photos clearly depicting the devastation the strike had caused to the structures.

He zoomed it in to McG's last known location and his stomach sank, realism quickly blowing away any remaining false positivity he had mustered.

Shit.


	2. Chapter 2

When McG wakes, everything is dark and everything hurts.

It takes a while to process anything past that. His thoughts are sluggish and his head spins like he's been on a terrible bender. But he doesn't remember drinking, and this feels so much worse than any hangover he's ever had before.

He's not really sure where he is or what has happened. Just that his whole body is in agony and he can't seem to move. There is also a strange buzzing in his ear that he really wishes would go away and leave him in peace.

After a minute or so he realizes his eyes are still shut and with a concerted effort he manages to get them open.

From his position he can see the stars high up in the dark sky overhead.

There is some small sane part of his brain that thinks that's weird. That there probably should have been a roof there.

But then the stars begin to blur and disappear from the sky until everything is just black again.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

The next time he wakes he is a bit more with it.

Aware enough to realize just how screwed he is.

It hurts a bit less which is nice, but deep down he knows it's not actually a good thing. Even though it does allow him to concentrate a little longer on exactly what kind of mess he's gotten himself into.

Nothing will move. Not his hands, not his legs.

Squinting he can focus enough to make out some pieces of the wall on top of his arms and chest. They are pinning down his arms and shoulders and making it hard to breath.

But that weight is nothing compared to what lays beyond.

A massive wooden beam is cutting into his thighs just below his pelvis, gravity pressing it unrelentlessly down and pinning him to the ground.

From his prone position, he can't see past the thick piece of wood. Nor can he really feel his legs by this point, they've long ago gone numb. At least he hopes they have. He isn't sure he really wants to know what kind of shape his lower half is in on the other side. His legs might not even be attached still for all he knows. He's seen shock mask all sorts of trauma. That realization makes him laugh, even though there really is nothing funny about it.

He forces his eyes away from the beam and the gory possibilities of what could lay behind it.

Instead he stares up at the non existent ceiling where the beam used to span the ceiling, holding up the roof above the second story of the house.

Right... there was a second story... he had been on the second story.

It all comes rushing back to him, how he ended up like this. The panicked warning in his ear, followed immediately by a bombing way too close to his location. The room exploding around him, things falling on him.. him falling.

So basically a house had fallen on him.

It wasn't caused by a tornado but his somewhat delirious brain, pictures his feet sticking out the otherside like the wicked witch with her ruby slippers. Someone could come by and steal his shoes and he wouldn't even know it.

A noise in the distance distracts him from his weird trip down the yellow brick road.

Maybe it's wishful thinking but it sounds like familiar voices calling out. Every fiber of his being hopes that it's his team, that they fared better than him.

He won't be much use to them if they are hurt and that thought concerns him more than anything else about this so far.

The precariously balanced rubble to the left of him shifts, spreading new dust into the air. It causes him to cough and sharp pain spikes in his chest and he drifts away again.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

He awakes sharply this time, body automatically reacting when a knee drops to the ground near his head.

"I've got him, form on me"

He knows that voice.

Then quieter, almost under his breath like a prayer, the man swears softly.

That's McG's first indication he is in trouble,

Dalton rarely swears.

"How're you doing McG?"

Dalton's face blurs into view as he leans closer into view assessing the situation.

McG recognizes the careful tones and now he really knows things are bad. Top has the same schooled features and the same false casualness that he usually gives people when he's trying not to let them know how much of a mess they are. It's weird to have it directed back at him.

If he wasn't sure, the reactions of the rest of the team when they arrive into view over Adam's shoulder confirm it.

Definitely not good.

He tries to get an answer out but the words catch in his dry throat. His lips and mouth are caked in dust and grime and he can't find any traction.

A hand tilts his head upwards gently and trickles some water into his mouth. The medic side of him wants to chastise them for not securing his c-spine like he's taught them. But right now he is so absurdly grateful for the liquid he doesn't care.

A few drops in though in his body rebels and he coughs out the precious hydration. The coughs are weak and the water gurgles out his mouth pitifully running down the side of his face leaving tracks in his dirty skin. He closes his eyes as his chest protests the sudden movements, he really needs to stop coughing.

When he finally manages get them to open again there are several sets of worried eyes fixed on him. Jaz is biting her lip but Preach gives him a reassuring nod.

"Been ….better" he finally pushes out.

"Yeah I'll bet. Always got to go for the big drama huh Joseph?" Amir makes the effort to keep things light and McG makes the effort to reciprocate.

"t's how you get the ladies"

That gets a few eye rolls and its worth the effort to see their faces relax slightly.

Dalton is all business though

"Give us a systems check. Anything we need to worry about? Anything bleeding? We can't really see what's going on under all that stuff yet."

McG tries to think it through. It was hard to pinpoint what exactly was hurting. Could he just say everything?

He normally hated that answer but he would never judge a patient who used it ever again. It was honestly just the truth right it also wasn't helpful so he tried to prioritize what might be important for them to know about.

"Head is bad, lungs heavy...can't feel legs"

The team exchanges glances around him, unable to hide their worry at that last piece of information.

"You guys've... Shitty bedside manner"

They belatedly try to look unconcerned and he smirks a little.

"Alright, we'll get this beam off you and get you squared away."

Top's matter of fact plan is more reassuring than anything at this point. Short and simple, perfect for McG's foggy brain to latch onto right now.

Amir and Preach set to work clearing off some of the lighter rubble trapping his chest and arms. His battered ribs gratefully pull in oxygen without as much effort and with his upper half exposed the team can finally do something to help him.

Jaz quickly covers his torso with a blanket. It's a good idea considering the cold cement has been sapping his body heat for however long he's been lying here. She pulls out an IV kit and starts a line. He barely feels the pinch which is impressive, or maybe his arms are just numb as well. The prick at his neck he definitely feels, but its worth it and he moans appreciatively at the morphine hitting his system.

Finished with the minimal first aid she can attempt right now, Jaz runs her hand through his hair soothingly. He wants to remember to tease her about that later, but he probably won't. He knew deep down the Ninja was a big softie, now he has proof.

Her gentle fingers are the one nice sensation amongst the myriad of pains that are building the longer he lays here. Its soothing, just like the grey tugging at the edges of his vision and his lids start to lower slowly. The ever vigilant sniper is on him in a second chiding him to stay awake.

"M'awake"

He mutters, hoping it will appease her so he doesnt have to open his heavy eyes. He tries to focus on something else other than how appealing sleep is right now. He listens to his team work, trying to follow the conversation flowing around him and the sounds of metal and debris being moved as Preach, Dalton and Amir look for a way to free him.

He hears them preparing to lift, nearing conensus that they have appropriate leverage to lift the beam in one go. Instead of relief, he still can't shake the feeling that it's a bad idea. That this is not the right approach. That there was something he was missing. But he can't put the pieces together and his head protests when he tries.

He brushes it off in frustration, focusing instead on mentally preparing for what he knows is coming. The morphine they'd given him isn't going to going to be enough when the beam is lifted and the blood started reflowing to his extremities. He takes a few shaky breaths trying to relax, trying to let go of the anxiety and whatever is needling him about their plan. A few more breaths and he can feel the fatigue winning the battle, and he doesn't even try to fight it this time, hoping that when he wakes up it will be in a comfy bed with all the good drugs pumping.

"Easy now, we don't want to crush him, let's get something to brace that" Top's order cut through the deeping haze and he finds himself stuck on the wording.

Crush him…

Crush…

A sharp realization pulled him back from the darkness, as sudden and quick as turning on a lightswitch. That niggling doubt that he had been unable to put his finger on suddenly clicked into place.

That was it. He was being crushed. Of course he knew that before but now it was so clear, medically speaking they needed to account for crush syndrome.

Shit. How long has he been here. He has no idea.

Adrenaline was sharpening his mind again and his brain was trying to calculate but he didn't trust his sense of time. He forced his eyes back open in what feels like a Herculean feat.

"Jaz, how long?"

"How long what?"

"How... long... here?"

Every word is taking effort. With more adrenaline comes more awareness, but also more discomfort.

It's making it both easier and harder to focus again.

"I dunno, a couple hours now. Just hang on we are gonna get you out of here soon."

No that's not what he wanted.

 _Stop._

The word didn't make it out with any volume. Lips helplessly forming a word that no one hears. His mouth was so dry, any moisture he could generate rapidly absorbed and caked the sides with the dust and dirt. But they had to stop. He had to make her hear him. He painfully swallowed and tried again.

"Stop."

It was somewhere between a pitiful sob and a desperate prayer, but at least this time it was audible.

"What's that McG?" Jax leaned in closer.

"Don't lift it."

She looked at him reassuringly not understanding. "It's fine we will take it off carefully. We can give you more morphine. It will be ok."

"Jaz no... don't... kill me!"

That got her attention.

Eyes widening she finally processed some of the severity of what he was trying to say, even if she still looked confused.

She stood up, turning to address the rest of the team gathered on the other side of the beam.

He dizzily tried to track her movement, finally relaxing when he heard her relay the message.

After that things went a little grey again, his body taking his relief as job done and time to shut down for a rest.

A gentle pat to his face brought his eyes back open. He wasn't sure when they had closed.

But the whole team was now crouched down near him. Looking unsure and concerned. Waiting for him to speak.

He tried to sort his thoughts through. Prioritize what he needed to tell them.

"Crush syndrome. Can't lift it."

Ok, just tell us what we need to do.

Dalton's voice was calm and he grasped on to that like a lifeline. Fighting the panic that was swelling and making it harder to think. What did they need to do? Think McG. He hadn't got that far yet.

"Where's my bag?" he tried to look around but his vision swam.

"I need to… I mean you need to…"

Jesus. He sounded so flustered.

He looked up at Jaz and lost focus in the watery tears rimming her concerned eyes. Crap he couldn't do this to her. Not after Elijah.

Focus McG. How did he treat this. Crush syndrome… okay. Toxins were building up. Would travel up once the compression was lifted. Needed to balance it out with the appropriate levels of fluids and ...did he even have bicarbonate in his bag? Or Calcium Chloride…

Even if he did, how did he explain it.

The team all had basic field medic training but the complex titrations required for this were beyond their skillsets. That wouldn't work. Hell he didn't even think he had enough IV fluids to pull it off anyways.

Panic overwhelmed him. He couldn't do this. They couldn't do this.

The team exchanged worried glances.

Preach scooted closer to him. Kneeling down next to his head and firmly taking his hand.

"Ok McG. We need your help. Patients lower limbs have been under heavy weight for 3 hours. What's your treatment plan? Push fluids? Elevate?"

He grasped onto the clam procedural voice. Training overriding his panic. Separating himself from the equation. Identify the problem… find a solution.

"Yes. Push fluids…. Much as possible. No elevation."

Ok, ignore the titrations. What was the second best treatment plan...

"Need... Tourniquets on legs. Above beam. Tight. Don't release. Don't lift weight till last minute"

"Tell doctors. Crush syndrome… watch the kidneys"

He petered off spent, panting in pain and lack of oxygen. He let himself drift for a while, trusting his team to follow his instructions.

He vaguely heard Jaz teasing tones, but he wasn't sure what she was joking about.

Sometime later he heard the motors of the helicopter as it approached. A part of him processed that meant it was almost time.

He jerked back to full awareness when they yanked hard pushing against his body to tighten the tourniquets firmly around his legs

"Ready McG?"

Dalton was letting him make the call.

He looked around at each of his teammates, memorizing their faces, suddenly scared. All he had wanted was to get out from under the crushing weight but now what lay on the other side terrified him more. The idea that he might not make it or that he might not be in one piece if he did. Either way he wouldn't be there to fight alongside his team again, to take care of them and ensure they all made it home. That was his job. He wasn't ready to abandon it yet. He wasn't ready to abandon them yet.

Jaz took his hand and squeezed it hard as if to remind him that they weren't going anywhere and neither was he.

He swallowed and gave a short nod. "Ready"

"Ok. Three. Two. one lift"

He felt some of the heaviness recede.

Still blissfully numb for a second, he had just enough time to think that it had gone better than expected, that it hadn't hurt that bad to move it. Then he was engulfed in a wave of fire, as if someone had dumped gasoline on his entire lower half and lit a match. Every nerve screamed and he choked out something unintelligible as pain stole his breath. He prayed for it to be over, for the darkness to come back and make it stop. There were guttural noises in the background and only after a few seconds did he realize they were coming through his own clenched teeth.

He tried to curl upwards, to escape but hands held him back, pushing him to stay still. Voices blurred around him but he couldn't understand anything trapped in his own world where the only language was pain. His breath was coming out in fast rapid pants and even through the firestorm his medic brain chided him to breathe slowly through it. Warning that he was going to hyperventilate if he kept up like this. Another part of his brain told that one to _fuck off_ and happily embraced unconsciousness when it came a few seconds later.


	3. Chapter 3

When he wakes it's dark again.

His heart races, eyes searching around his surroundings, finding himself alone and in the dark, prone.

Nothing has changed since the last couple times he came back to awareness. He is still trapped, helpless. His team never came for him, their voices and their aid a figment of his imagination. A cruel trick, borne out of his desperation. It would have been something out of a movie, his team sweeping in to Dave the day, but in reality he is still lying here alone and is going to die under this beam.

A machine chirps, registering his heart rate spike. The sound is startling, completely out of place with his perceived environment but so familiar that he instantly recognizes it. The plastic cannula blowing air gently into his nose reminds him to breathe so he does and as he takes a deep breath, and realizes he can breath easier, with only a fully ache from his ribs. His body is lighter and floatier than expected and finally his brain starts to catch on to the fact that he is out of the rubble. That maybe he actually got his wish to wake up in a soft bed under medical supervision and the appropriate medications.

It's such a stark contrast from the last things he remembers. Fleeting memories that are vividly dark and confusing, filled with overwhelming heaviness and pain that dominate everything. They are also laden with strong feelings of helplessness, loneliness, and fear that he is still having trouble letting go of even now.

He tries to focus on the present instead, to reassure himself that he is alive with the sensations he is feeling now and hearing now instead of the ones he remembers. The feel of the crisp sheets against his bruised chest, the beeping of the machines and the blinking lights, the antiseptic smell and the distant voices somewhere beyond this room.

It all screams hospital.

Even still he's not convinced. It's hard to be certain of anything when you are most definitely high on a cocktail of drugs. Everything has a slightly shimmery feel to it, like its happening from a distance and not necessarily to him, even though it is. He isn't sure that his tenuous hold on reality won't warp at any second and he won't be back pinned on the cold floor. The last vestiges of the panic he woke up are being fueled by the opiates leading to a constant feeling that something is about to go wrong, that the other shoe is going to drop any second.

Shoes….right.

Feet…..legs...

Right.

The heart rate monitor squawks again, registering his unease.

He has so far avoided looking anywhere but straight up. Most of his body feels tingly and numb and even if he tried he couldn't tell if he had 5 legs or no legs attached.

He will have to look eventually, but he's not ready to go there yet. He needs a minute before he sees what's down there, or not down there.

Another shaky breath and he makes an attempt to move for the first time, starting small with his head tilting slightly to the left so his eyes can track the tubes running up into the many machines. He tries to read the displays in vain, to get an idea of his vitals, but his head injury and the drugs make the numbers jump and twitch before his eyes. He blinks and looks away, feeling the nausea swirl down deep in his stomach.

He keeps them shut for a minute until his stomach settles, swallowing hard a few times before he re-opens and continues his inspection of the room. He expands his view past the machinery and along the side of the room, slowly and carefully scanning until he reaches a still figure in a chair.

Top

He breathes a sigh of relief. Finding someone else in this room helps ground things, make them more real. He isn't alone anymore.

Adam, in particular, projects an aura of calmness, even when sleeping. Its a security blanket McG isn't ashamed to admit he needs right now.

Dalton seems to sense the change in the room. He comes to awareness quickly under the scrutiny, eyes opening without any other body movement to give away the change He surveys the room purposely, almost suspiciously, a habit borne of too many years in too many dangerous situations.

Quickly though his expression softens, a smile gracing his face when he finds he is not the only one awake in the room. He's on his feet and at the side of the bed in a step.

A hand finds McG's shoulder, gentle pressure that's finally something tangible to hold on to

"Good to have you back McG, how are you doing?"

Dalton doesn't seem to expect a response to his question, which is good because McG doesn't know if he knows the answer. Instead Adam holds out a cup and straw from the side of the bed and McG focuses on sipping at it tentatively, no desire to have it come back up again.

The cool water is so welcome against his dry throat but after a few sips he settles back , exhausted just from the coordination required for that simple task.

"That's it, you're alright"

Somehow Top knows what he needs to hear.

It slowly starts to sink in.

He's alright.

But he still isn't quite ready to accept things are a-ok quite yet.

It's silent for a while as he decides what is still worrying him, what he needs to know now. Foggy thoughts and fears cloud his brain, and it takes a moment for him to sort through and settle on his biggest concern. And then another moment while he convinces his mouth to form the words he wants them to.

"Team?" It comes out slightly slurred, and barely a question but its mostly clear so he is calling it a win..

Dalton's head comes up from where he's resumed his seat, clearly not expecting further conversation or a prolonged bout of consciousness.

He smiles ruefully and answers without hesitation

"They're fine. I sent them to get some rest. Jaz was about two seconds away from threatening a nurse because she thought you needed more pillows. Amir was joking, or maybe not joking, about stealing some scrubs to try and get some intel on your condition for us. Preach on the other hand went to get some food that I apparently need."

The affectionate exasperation behind Adam's words and the familiar antics of his team settle warmly in his chests and for the first time since he wakes he can feel some of the anxiety dissipate.

It's tempting to leave it there.

But it also bolsters him and he is determined to get the information he needs. To have all the facts before he has to wake up unsure again.

"Legs?"

He studies the ceiling as he asks so he doesn't have to see Top's reaction. Doesn't want to see the pity.

It's Top though so he probably should have known better. Because there is no long pause, no beating around the bush, just straight facts that come quickly and clearly.

"You've got some broken bones, and the muscles underneath were pretty damaged. It's gonna be a long haul and you're not going to be running any marathons any time soon, but they think it will heal up pretty good eventually"

"Attached" It comes out like a croak, emotion his clogging his throat.

Dalton chuckles, "Yeah McG, they are attached"

He looks slightly bemused as if he is questioning just how strong of drugs the medic is enjoying. But he hasn't been privy to the fears that have been plaguing McG since he woke under the beam, unable to see, move or feel his lower extremities. He doesn't know that skin, and bone and muscle could have easily given way under that much weight falling from that kind of height.

But it didn't.

Somehow it didn't.

Now he looks eagerly and sees there are leg-like shapes under the blanket. It doesn't' drop off sharply and go flat after his hips like what he imagined.

Instead there are weird shapes and protrusions sticking out that tell him there are probably some screws and plates attached. So he might set off an alarm or two at airport security from now on, its a small price to pay.

He knows better than to try and move them quite yet. Not in any rush to revisit the pain from the last time they were disturbed. But there is hope that they might move again, support him to walk again, allow him to fight again. There is hope.

Overwhelmingly relieved he lets his head drop back heavily against the pillow. Neck suddenly too tired to control it's descent. The small change in elevation makes things spin for a moment and he closes his eyes against the rotation of the room.

They shoot back open almost of their own accord a moment later when another one of his panicked thoughts surfaces.

"Kidneys?"

He is the king of one word questions. Thankfully Dalton is very good at reading between the lines. Sometimes too good. Normally McG finds it uncanny when Top answers a question you hadn't asked yet or responds to something you didn't intend to voice. Today he will take it and be exceedingly grateful that he doesn't have to explain in more detail what he is looking for.

"Well this one was a bit over my head, there was a lot of stuff about creatine and gromular filtration or something like that. They eventually took pity on us and tried to dumb it down, said you were going to need some extra dialysis for a while but that they don't think the damage is permanent. No one is going to have to fork over a kidney quite yet"

"Glomerular Filtration" the correction comes out automatically, half mumbled even as his energy wanes and his eyes began to blink heavily.

"What?"

McG didn't blame Dalton for being confused. It was quite the graduation from one word questions to multisyllabic medical jargon. Concussions worked in mysterious ways.

He didn't bother trying to explain, just murmuring a simple "not that bad then" and letting himself sink deeper into the soft mattress.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Dalton can't help but give the half asleep man an incredulous look.

Not that bad then.

It sure hadn't felt like it from their side of things.

He doubted the medic was lucid enough to really appreciate how close they had come to losing him. How bad it had gotten once he passed out. There had been plenty of time to relive the nightmarish journey in while he waited for McG to wake. His mind had played it over and over, questioning every decision and insisting that there was something more he could have done.

They'd known it wasn't going to be pretty when the beam came off. It had been physically painful for all of them to see McG suffer like that. Dalton had been a few seconds away from choking him out in desperation, anything to make the intolerable pain stop. Thankfully McG's body had done it for him, giving the man a reprieve in unconsciousness.

He'd falsely thought they were past the worst once they got him on the helicopter safely en route to the professionals who could help him.

Only 30 minutes to the nearest facility.

Only 25 minutes.

Only 20 minutes out.

He begins to think they are going to make it.

Rookie Move. ...of course life doesn't work like that.

Even with McG's warning about crush syndrome they still weren't prepared for his sudden decline.

One second he was stable, the next his blood pressure dropped off the charts. Seconds later he vomited suddenly without regaining consciousness and it was only preaches quick grab and turn that managed to keep it from choking him. Just as they caught their breath he seized, jerking uncontrollably under their hands for the longest minute they'd ever experienced.

They'd been powerless to do anything for him other than squeeze the last bag of saline, trying to hurry the fluids in faster. Dalton had tried to take comfort in the gentle fog of the oxygen mask that reassured him McG was still breathing. Trying to stay calm and believe that the man would pull through even as his vital tanked and his pulse became more and more erratic under his fingers. He had to pull through.

The doctors had praised their quick thinking with the tourniquets, thanked them for getting him to the hospital as quickly as they had. That the team had done all they could do for their teammate. But it hadn't felt like it. In the moment it had felt like they hadn't known what to do. There was a big difference.

It felt like they had let him down. He always had their back when things went sour and they couldn't return the favour.

The team had been gutted, stricken silent with concern and guilt.

He could picture Jaz's white knuckled grip on McG's limp hand. As if if she held on tight enough he wouldn't go anywhere. The vibration under his butt betrayed Amir's nerves as his leg bounced so hard and fast it shook the whole bench seat. Preach, to his left, whispered prayers under his breath, it was comforting even if he couldn't make out the exact words Adam could barely hear them over the rotor noise.

Normally Dalton hated seeing a team member in the hospital. All of them hated being in there, that went without saying. They all had developed their own unique ways of coercing McG not to make them go, to take care of them at base when needed. For example it was a well known fact that McG could be bribed with food. Jaz in particular was shameless, not afraid to use her femininity when it suited her. He swore she had flirted her way out of the last overnight hospital stay with a few batted eyelashes.

In this situation though, he had never been so happy to turn over care to the professionals. To happily relinquish control of the situation knowing full well that McG needed more care than they could give and deserved better care than they were capable of.

Stitches, sure they could have handled that.

Broken bones. Piece of cake.

Hell even bullet wounds he was more familiar with those than he would like to be.

This … this had been entirely out of their league.

And when the doctors had rushed him away they had been left with all the all too familiar question of whether they would ever see their teammate again. Ten times worse was that if they didn't, they would always have wondered if there was something they could have done differently.

Only in the last few hours had the doctors stopped frowning when ever they looked at the ECG printouts. The room had quieted, the machine alarms ringing less often. Nurses returning less and less frequently for vital checks. It was only then that he had managed to convince the team to go get some sleep. That he tried to convince himself the worst was over and that his medic and friend was going to be alright.

 _Not that bad then._

He begs to differ. But as he watches McG drift off again he settles for a simple response

"New rule...the medic isn't allowed to get hurt. Ever."

He doubts McG is going to remember this, but that's ok. He has a few teammates that will happily remind him.


End file.
